


In Retrospect

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: The Fleischer Guide to an Unforgettable Holiday [3]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Belated panic, Companion Piece, Healing takes time, No Plot/Plotless, POV First Person, Panic Attacks, Parents are weird... especially the Fleischers, Slavery, blood sports, gunshot wound, heroics, illegal fighting ring, reference to alcoholism, reference to prostitution, reference to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: Companion fic to Freefalling From Las Vegas & Fake IDs and Tree Flavored Tea!!!THIS WORK CONTAINS SPOILERS!!!(Following Chapter 26 of Freefalling, this fic can be read together with Fake IDs.)A gunshot wound is a must on your next trip to Vegas.  A thrill no parent would approve.  Guaranteed.





	1. Champion

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to some very kind and thought-provoking comments on Freefalling From Las Vegas, I was motivated to fic some key scenes and scenarios from Duro’s POV. Luckily, Duro’s almost always up for a chat with me, so this companion piece happened.
> 
> Do not expect a plot or a storytelling structure similar to Freefalling From Las Vegas. This is a series of vignettes from Duro’s perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: “Beneath the Flames” by Digital Daggers

I heard somewhere -- maybe I got it from one of those dumb short stories we had to read in high school -- that you couldn’t appreciate the best moment in your life if you hadn’t survived one of the worst.

Yeah, that was a line worthy of an inspirational greeting card.

Flip that shit around, though, and I could vouch for it being one-hundred percent fucking true.

Everybody back home had told me I was a moron to think I could head out west and make it big as a fighter.  Well, everyone except for my folks.

My mom had said, “You could do it, Duro-darling.  Just don’t tell your dad I said so.  He worries, you know.”

And then there was my dad, who had said, “You’ll get a title in record time, son.  Just don’t breathe a word to your mom.  She’d skin me alive.”

Parents are weird.  Especially mine.  I mean, hell, they’d met back when my dad was a beat cop and my mom showed up at the station to post a notice on the bulletin board about the free self-defense classes she was offering at the gym.  Of course my dad hadn’t been able to resist checking it out.  Got his ass handed to him in the process.  They’d just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary last April.  Happy as clams.  If clams had a thing for karate and boxing.  But, yeah, that wasn’t entirely relevant to the issue at hand.

See, I’d just won a tournament in Las Vegas.  Sounds pretty awesome, right?  I would’ve been on top of the fucking world except for the part where I’d killed my opponents.  Five guys I’d never met or had a problem with until couple of weeks ago.  Thirty-one guys in total who had bit the dust just so I could be standing here in this stinking locker room, forcing my aching limbs through the arm and leg holes of a pair of black jeans and a dark red T-shirt.  Maybe the color was supposed to highlight the blood and bruises.  The crazy thing was that I barely noticed the pain anymore.  I’d had plenty of time to get used to it.

“It’s a kind of boot camp,” Quintus Batiatus had said.  It’ll open doors for me, he’d said.  I’d get to fight in front of Vegas crowds, he’d said.  The bitch of it was, he hadn’t even lied.  I’d caught a ride with one of the camp staff -- some dude named Aulus -- and walked in all smiles.

But then one guy had changed his mind, decided this hardcore gladiator shit wasn’t his scene.  He’d tried to leave.

“You four--”  Aulus hadn’t pointed to me, but that hadn’t made what had come next any easier to take.  “--kill him or you’ll be locked up and left to rot.  No food, no water for five days.”

They beat him to death.  It took less time than I would have guessed.

Nobody was smiling after that.

“Hey.  Get a move on.”

I grunted at the two meat heads who had been supervising me.  I was tempted to refuse to wear the clothes that had been laid out for me.  Go buck naked.  Just what would they do about it, eh?  Fuck, I was too damn exhausted to find out.

They took me to the elevator.  Hit the button for the top floor.  My lips twitched at the thought of bleeding all over the fucking penthouse suite.

No such luck.  They pointed me up to the roof.

Well, it was a nice view.  With my left eye swollen shut and sand blowing into my scrapes, it was fucking fantastic.

“So this is him,” a voice drawled.

I had to turn my head to get a good look at--

Fuck.  You had to be kidding me.  The guy strolling toward me with two huge bodyguards in tow was some kind of teenage nerd.

He grinned.  “My new fighter.”

His new what now?

“Congratulations,” he continued, speaking over the wind that screamed across the helipad.  “On your victory.”

I gaped.  Gawked.  Was I supposed to say “thanks” or some shit?

One of the bodyguards leaned forward.  “Dominus, the helicopter is ready.”

“Have the other one brought up.”

The.  Other.  One.  Just how many fucking helicopters were we talking about here?

Just the one, actually.  It landed and a guy who was even smaller than this Dominus dweeb jumped down from the pilot’s seat.  He took the luggage that the bodyguards passed him and then the rooftop door opened and two more big guys escorted a woman outside.  She stiffened when she saw the helicopter.  With a grand gesture, the geek indicated that she be positioned right next to me.

“Well, first things first.  Introductions!” the freak declared.

My right hand was a mess.  There was no way I could shake her hand without smearing blood all over her.  “Duro Fleischer,” I said.  “From Hermann, Missouri.”

“Sura Thrace.  Los Angeles.”

Sura Thrace wasn’t a fighter.  She didn’t have a scratch or a bruise on her… that I could see.  What the hell was she doing here?  And what did these ass wipes want with us?

As it turned out, that was the next point on the agenda.

There was a gun.

There were some words.  A question, maybe?  Yeah, it was up to us to decide which one of us would live.

Ah, fuck.  After all of this.  After I’d fought as hard as I could because Agron would never forgive me if I didn’t come back home to Mom and Dad -- after I’d killed five guys with my bare, bruised, and bleeding hands -- this was how it was gonna end?

Son of a bitch.

I nodded toward the woman.  “Take her with you.”

The gun shifted back and forth, from her to me, back and forth.  So terrifying it was almost hypnotic.

Was this shit really happening?

It was.

The gun stopped moving.  Target chosen: it wasn’t me.  How could it not be me?  I was stunned stupid.

The helicopter pilot wasn’t.  He sprinted out, a dark blur against the bright lights--

And when the gun went off, the bullet didn’t hit the woman.  It hit the pilot, who spun, stumbled--

No, the _****world****_  was spinning and me with it--

Why did my belly hurt?   _ ** **Shit, that stings.****_

I looked down, saw the blood.  It spurted in time with my heartbeat.

Oh, God.

My knees buckled, the wind nudging me toward oblivion--

But it wasn’t God that pushed me away from the edge of that roof.  It was the pilot, his expression stunned.  Time stopped as our eyes met, his face burned into my memory.

I crashed to my knees just as he tumbled out of sight in perfect silence.

“No!” Dominus screamed.  “Fuck!  I wanted the bitch to bleed, not him!  I _****need****_  a new fighter, damn it!”  He charged forward, gun trained on -- what was her name?  Sura?  Why did it even matter to me?  I was fucking bleeding to death.

“Sir?  Sir!  May I make a suggestion?”

One of the bodyguards stepped forward and said something into Dominus’ ear.  I couldn’t hear it over the whump-whump-whump of the idling helicopter blades.  Whatever it was, it seemed to calm the little shit down.  He smiled at Sura.  “Any last words?”

“I’m pregnant.”

He laughed -- fucking squeaked his skinny ass off.  “Get her on board.”  As two men moved to comply, he told a third, “Have this mess taken care of.”

This mess.  He meant _****me.****_

To the goon who’d offered advice, he said, “Give Chadara my regrets.  Tell her: ‘some other time.’”

Some other time.

Time.  It looked like mine was up.


	2. Hitting Rock Bottom

“Hey!”  A hand on my shoulder.  My face -- the left side -- was smushed against the rough concrete.  Either I shook her or she shook me.  The world was too blurry for me to be sure one way or the other.  She shouted again, “Hey!”

 _ ** **Hey.****_   She sounded like Agron.  The dumb fuck was always saying “Hey.”

Hay was for-- “Horses!” I grunted.

“Oh, shit.  You’re still alive.  C’mon.”

Where the hell did she think I could go?  I was fucking shot.  I groaned.

“Stop whining and get up.  Do you want to live or not?”

I opened my eyes, waited for the punchline to this cosmic joke, and found it: a beautiful, blond woman.  Perfect makeup.  Locks of hair cascading over her neck and shoulders in those spiral deals -- what do you call ‘em?  Ringlets?  That didn’t sound right.  Nothing sounded right.  It was windy.  And dark but pulsing with colored light.  And my guts hurt like a motherfucking alien embryo was clawing its way out of me.

My childhood nightmares come to life.  I refused to die like an extra in a Sigourney Weaver movie.

“If you’re not up in five seconds,” she badgered, “I’m leaving you here for those bozos to dump in the desert.  Have fun being coyote chow.”

“’m allergic to dogs,” I informed her.  With her hands under my arm, I pushed myself upright.  Sort of.  Mostly.  Good enough, anyway.

One foot in front of the other.  The first step was the hardest.  Momentum did the rest.

I made it to the service door.  And stairs, endless stairs -- fuck, these stairs would be featured in my nightmares for years.  Provided I lived that long.  An elevator, praise Jesus hallelujah, I fucking loved elevators -- only this one wasn’t the kind used for guests.  It was big and ugly and I would bet money that it had been used on the set of a Ridley Scott flick.

The contraption lurched to a stop, my stomach rolling with the abrupt motion.

My unhappy savior shoved me out and into the laundry room.  I coughed once in the humid air and immediately reconsidered the benefits of dying.

She manhandled me over to the wall -- steam-warmed cinder blocks radiating heat through my T-shirt and against my shoulders and back -- and started rooting through carts of draw-string bags.

“Here.  This’ll work.”

I blinked and breathed and bled onto my brand new black jeans as she maneuvered my arms into somebody’s black dress shirt.  It was too big.  I felt numb.

She shoved what I hoped was a clean towel under my T-shirt before tucking the hem into my jeans and arranged my arms to apply pressure.

“Don’t say a word,” she ordered.  “I’ll do all the talking.  Understand?”

I may have grunted.  And then I commenced with marveling at how fast the world was spinning around me.  God, the pain was everywhere.

I clocked back in to the blare of traffic.  She had one arm around my waist and the other was raised as if she was hoping the teacher would call on her.  I hoped she knew the right answer, because I sure as hell didn’t.

A taxi pulled up.  Why were they always yellow?

I decided I would ask, but by the time I’d sucked in enough air for words, I’d forgotten the question.

“My boyfriend overdid it at the gym today.  Muscle cramp,” she told the driver and then chatted brightly at him all the way home.

Home, no.  Home was very fucking far away.  And it didn’t look like a threadbare set on _****“Dexter.”****_

“’re the fuck am I?”  And how had I gotten here?  Flat on my back, no less.  “Ow,” I added and noticed that she was holding a folded up towel to my belly, pressing down.  Hard.

There was blood on her dress.  She was wearing rubber kitchen gloves.  I felt inexplicably offended.  She answered, “My place.”

“Eh?”

“Living room sofa.”  She lifted the towel slowly.

I followed her gaze down to where she was focused--

Oh, shit.  How’d that hole get there?  I was ninety-five percent certain there wasn’t supposed to be so much blood, either.

Grimacing, I tilted my head back.  Contemplated the ceiling.  “Call 911,” I suggested.

“I would if I could.”

Yeah, those rubber gloves might get in the way.  “Where’s your phone?  I’ll do it.”

I glanced around for anything vaguely phone-like and whirled right into darkness…

…and was spat back out of it by the gut-burning urge to take a piss.

Gut-burning?

I glanced down at the gauze spanning my abdomen.  Fuck.  Gut-burning.

Still had to piss, though.  Like a race horse.  Hay-hey.

“Hey, blonde lady!” I shouted.  Winced.  Ow.  Fuck, that hurt.  A lot.

She stepped into view with a bag of frozen peas in hand.  “Here.  For your eye.”

“Fuck my eye.  I gotta whiz.”

Her shoulders drooped.  “No good deed,” she muttered.  “Gimme ten seconds, hot shot.”

Count to ten.  OK.  On my fingers, maybe.  The ones on my hands.  Right hand first?  “My right ‘r your right?”

“There’s nothing right about you,” she replied, coming back with a plastic bucket.  At least she’d ditched the rubber gloves before unzipping my jeans, shoving my shorts down, and grabbing Duro Jr.

“Amazing,” I approved as my bladder emptied.  But then, as the internal pressure lessened, things shifted and the space under the gauze started throbbing.  Fuck, my whole abdomen pulsed and fucking fuck all--!

“Argh!” I told the ceiling and the ceiling answered by smothering me into oblivion.

Black was my new favorite color.  This was my waking thought as I blinked, squinted.  Why was it so fucking bright in here--oh, OK, so a time skip happened.  Or the world had sped up while I was blacked out.  It was sunny outside.  There was a warm bag of peas on my face.  I was lying on a--wait, whose fucking scratchy as shit sofa was--oh, fuck.  Bullet hole.  Hello.

“You’re awake.”

“And still not in a hospital.”

She came around and held a tumbler with a straw up for me to drink.  Water.  Water was good.  I liked water a lot.

She told me, “And therefore both of us are still alive.”

I did not have the strength to argue with her.  My man powers failed me.

“Look, I’d drive you to an out-of-town ER if I could.”

“Why can’t you?”

“No car.”

“Don’t they rent those out?  Share?  Borrow?”

“Why didn’t I think of that?  I’ll just wave my ID around, maybe hang out in front of a security camera or drag one of my friends into this mess.”

Mess.  She was talking about me.  I winced.  “I didn’t ask to get shot.”

“Yeah, you kinda did.”

Fuck.  I had, hadn’t I?

“If Dominus finds out I helped you get away, I’m dead.”

Aw, hell.  I didn’t want any more deaths on my hands.  No more.

She asked gently, “Is there anyone I can call to pick you up?”

“Agron.  Call Agron.”

“Who?  Never mind.  What’s the number?”

“Gimme my phone.”  I flailed aimlessly for it.

She pressed a hand to my shoulder to hold me still.

“Your phone is lost,” she explained patiently, but I was the patient, wasn’t I?  That was some kind of joke, but it didn’t feel very funny.  Nothing recently had felt very funny.  Not funny at all.  “What’s the number, buddy?”

“I don’t know.  My phone has it,” I explained.

“Damn it.  What about your parents?”

“Missouri.”

“Damn it.  Where’s, uh, Agron?”

Probably a lot closer.  “He’s gonna kill me.”

“C’mon, buddy.  Who do I call to come and get you?”

I didn’t know if I answered before I passed out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Chadara didn’t think this rescue thing through, yeah? She saves Duro, but then realizes that she’s just painted a bullseye on herself. On the slim chance that they got away unseen, Chadara does not want to risk being seen with Duro in public. She’s well aware that Duro’s a walking dead man if Dominus’ henchmen find out he’s still alive, and she’d rather not put herself on their radar, y’know?
> 
> Meanwhile, Duro is being sooo helpful and communicative (NOT!) due to blood loss and shock.


	3. Couch Potato

_****“Los Angeles?!  You stupid shit!”** ** _

“Agron?”

I looked around.  Couldn’t see him.  Had I imagined him?  Maybe dreamed him.  That just fucking figured: when I wanted the bossy shithead to show his stupid face, he didn’t; when I wanted to stuff him in a steamer trunk and toss him over a cliff, I couldn’t get rid of him.

It was dark again.  The blond woman was curled up in a ratty armchair on the other side of the room, asleep.  I stared at the single light bulb in the neighboring floor lamp before studying how it illuminated her features.

She was pretty, I decided.

I, however, was not.  I didn’t need a mirror to assess my injuries.  I felt like a nuked shit pie that had been sat on by a rhinoceros with severe bowel distress.  Oh, yeah.  This was a memorable sensation.

If I had to choose between explosive rhino farts and Agron’s self-righteous bluster, I’d take my big brother’s bullshit.  It was a close call, though.

With a sigh, I squirmed against the squashed cushions, winced as my belly pounded-and-peeled-itself-inside-out, and closed my eyes.

“Wake up.  C’mon.  I know you’re not dead yet.”

“Not yet,” I croaked, air whistling through my dry throat.

“Here.”

The straw and tumbler was back for an encore.  It was nice to see them again.  I drank.  I pissed.  I passed out.

A shove against my shoulder.

“Fuck off, butt munch,” I grumbled, grabbing for something to throw at Agron.  A baseball bat, Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit issue, the spunk towel tucked under the corner of my mattress… whatever.  Anything would do.

“What do you think you’re doing?  The backstroke?”

I blinked and, well whaddya know, the woman was back.  So was the daylight.  “Buddy, I need you to focus.  How do I get in touch with Agron?”

“He’s not freelance yet,” I warned her.

“Where does he work?”

“Big city.  He likes the city.  Says he’s not going home to the country to raise a family like Mom and Dad.”

“Good for him.  What’s the name of his company?”

Maybe I told her.  Maybe I didn’t.  The ceiling fan was on, spinning around and around and around…  I dozed off.

And then I roused to the sound of her muttering under her breath, “C’mon, c’mon… you fuckers can’t keep me on hold forever.”

I decided I’d take a nap while she was busy waiting--

“Oh, my God.  Tiberius?”

I snapped to awareness at her tone, ranging from a breathless whisper to a desperate squeal.

“Tiberius?  Tiberius, talk to me!  Dominus thinks you’re dead and I’ve got, uh, damn.  I’ve got a bit of a problem here with--”

A pause.

And then: “Don’t you dare hang up on--”

She pulled the phone away from her ear and glared at it.  “Fuck!” she said.

“He hung up, huh?  How rude.”  She didn’t reply, just closed her eyes.  It looked like she was either praying to God or damning someone to hell.  “Who was that?” I asked.

“Someone who could save your life.”

My life was in danger?  Shit, that wasn’t good.  “Where’s Agron?”

With a deep breath, she lifted the phone back to her ear.  “I’m on hold for him.  Having a last name might help, though.”

“Fleischer.  Agron Fleischer.  Who’s got you on hold?”

“The 1-800 number for his firm.”

Huh.  I must’ve squeezed that out before nap time had happened.  “Call his office in St. Louis,” I helpfully suggested.

“It’s past business hours in Missouri right now.”

“Oh.”

She tapped her foot, scowling in silence.

Just as I closed my eyes, she gasped and fumbled with the phone.  “Tiberius, you asshole!  Where do you get off--”

Here.  This was my stop.  I tumbled into dreams.  Agron was there.  It was my birthday and nobody could find the balloons.  There was a piñata, though, in the shape of a helicopter.  I thought it was kinda cool, but Agron--

_****“What the fuck?”** ** _

Huh?  Was he knocking my awesome helicopter piñata?  That asshole.  I--wait.  Was I awake this time?  “Ag-Agron?”

Footsteps.  The sofa that my body had fused to vibrated.  Hands on my face.  Holy shit, was my head fucking with me again or was I really seeing my brother’s face?

“Duro!  I’m here.  I’m here.”


	4. Brothers

I grabbed for my brother and he didn’t disappear.   _ ** **Please be real,****_  I begged someone, anyone.   _ ** **Please be real.****_

Agron tilted his brow against mine and someone was sobbing.  Oh, fuck it hurt.  Whoever was doing that should stop.

“What fucking happened?” he murmured in German and I answered.  Maybe I rambled.  The roof, the gun, Dominus, the little pilot from the helicopter… speak of the Devil!

“And here’s the man who fucking saved my life,” I announced, happy to see the guy again.  Although, something was not quite right here -- he had a cast on one leg and was leaning heavily on a pair of crutches and -- why was I surprised to see him?  And why did he look like the goldfish he’d won at the county fair had just died?

He shook his head.  “No, there was nothing I could do…”

Nothing?  Hold up.  Didn’t he work for that asshole who--oh, fuck.

I turned my head to inform Agron of this -- it seemed like something he ought to know -- and found my brother in tears.

_****Tears.** ** _

Smiling at that helo pilot like he’d just served him a five-course breakfast in bed and--

Oh, fuck.  My stupid brother had gone and fallen in love.  With _****this****_  guy.

When the hell had this happened?  And shouldn’t this little twerp be dead anyway?

“How did you fucking survive that fall?”  Yeah, this outta be good.  Way better than the cheesy magic tricks and hackneyed sleight of hand I’d seen at the fair, and miles better than winning a stupid goldfish.

He said something that sounded a lot like “base jumping.”

“Dude!”  Ow.  Fuck.  Note to self: shouting was a no-go.  “Dude, I was gonna take a header and you just--fuck--”  What was this guy’s deal?  Whose side was he on?  “--you came outta nowhere and took that bullet--”

Instead of claiming bragging rights, he shouldered the blame: “That bullet bounced off of my helmet and hit you instead.”

“You pulled me back from the ledge,” I insisted and boom.  I’d won before I’d even clued into the fact that we’d been arguing.  Oh, hell yeah.  I was the crowned king of Bullheaded Stubborn.

And then Agron was back to blubbering at me in German, treating me like I was five years old and convinced there was a spider crawling around my toes under the blankets.

“Fuck off already,” I Germaned.  “I’d like to come outta this without having my fucking Man Card revoked.”

Not that he listened.  Eventually, I had to close my eyes to get him to stop embarrassing the hell outta me.  Just to be on the safe side, I dragged a snore in.  Sure enough, Agron shifted his laser focus to someone else.

“You OK?” he asked, voice aimed up and over the back of the sofa, toward the helo pilot.

The little guy didn’t answer.  Instead, he gave Agron shit to do.  Chadara micromanaged with helpful details.

Huh.  My disgruntled caregiver’s name was Chadara.

Agron said, low and reverent, “Thank you, Nasir.”

My big brother’s new squeeze was called Nasir, and Agron had just kissed him on the cheek.  Fuck, he treated the guy like he was made of spun glass.

This was serious.

It’d been a while since I’d put the fear of God into someone on my brother’s behalf.  I probably wasn’t all that intimidating lying here like a delirious toad, but the guy that I was honor-bound to threaten was on crutches, so it wasn’t like we were gonna throw down.

Either way, if this little guy broke my big brother’s heart, he’d fucking regret it.

But first, I had a few points to clarify: not only had Nasir worked for that scumbag, but Agron knew all about it.  I just--fuck, my brain hurt.

“I don’t get it.”

He sighed.  “Agron got me out of the hospital safely.”

I guessed that meant he didn’t get it, either.

Oh, well.  It would all make sense eventually.  That was what Mom and Dad always said.  Of course, they were usually talking about shit like those stupid reading assignments or a fight I’d had with Rudy and Tot or the mystery of why Saxa wasn’t talking to me… again.

Family.  They made no sense at all, actually.  And if Agron wanted this Nasir guy to be part of ours, yeah, OK.  I was cool with that.  The guy had saved my life, after all.  And he’d saved that woman’s -- Sura’s.  He’d saved me and Sura and he’d survived a dive from the top of a fucking building.

Now that I thought about it, that little dude was pretty fucking awesome.  I could see why Agron liked him.  I just hoped they were gonna have a nice, long talk about Nasir getting a new job, because his old one wasn’t gonna fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duro informed me that he had nothing to say about his hospital experience and he was NOT going to let me drag him through the sheer awkwardness his visitors would undoubtedly foist upon him (because how else would people you've known your entire life -- some of them friends from preschool! -- deal with the fact that one of their own had unwittingly been pulled into the world of modern day slavery and blood sports? The attempts at sympathy and ignoring change and coping via very bad jokes would be so painful) ... so we're going to check back in with Duro L A T E R.
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy Freefalling From Las Vegas & Fake IDs and Tree Flavored Tea. (^_~)


	5. Down Homing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fleischer Farm in Hermann, Missouri
> 
> Over a month has gone by since Duro was shot in Las Vegas. (So, Nasir still has three or four more weeks to go before he can ditch the cast.)
> 
> WARNINGS: family dealing with trauma in awkward and bull-headed ways
> 
> AUTHOR'S RECOMMENDATION:  
> Finish reading Freefalling From Las Vegas & Fake IDs and Tree Flavored Tea before starting these final three chapters of In Retrospect.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

That tone.  Fuck.  Did it come as a package deal when a woman became a mom?  “Uh… to give Dad a hand with the tractor?”  Wasn’t that why she’d told me he was tinkering with the decrepit thing out in the barn?

I straddled the threshold of the backdoor, fingers splayed against the screen and warping the mesh just like she was always harping on me and Agron not to do.  I quirked a brow in blatant defiance.  Hell yes, I was giving her sass.  I was a grown man, damn it all to sweet fuck.  I did not need permission to feel up my family’s own fucking tractor.

She shook her head and pointed toward the kitchen table.  “Sort the mail.  I’ll go give your father a hand.”

I scoffed but didn’t dare outright refuse a direct order.  “I’ll do it later--”

“Do it now.”  She wiped her hands on a dish towel before draping it over the back of my old high chair.

It still sat in the corner, twenty-something years after I’d outgrown it.  Like an accusation.  My jaw clenched for a moment before I pressed the fury back far enough to insist, “I can fucking--”

“Do not use that language in this house, young man.”

“--hand him tools!”

“Sit.  Sort the mail.”  She marched right up to me and we stood nose-to-nose for a God awful ten seconds before I moved back inside.

I lodged a protest: “Sorting the mail is Nasir’s job.”

“We’ll have more by the time your brother brings him over for supper this Sunday.”

Argh!  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” I huffed.

She turned away from the sprawling back deck and sniped, “I’ll believe that when the doctor says so.”

“What--are you--you’re gonna listen to some pretentious assh--”

Her chin tilted down in warning.  Fuck, she and Agron were so alike at times it was freakish.

“--assuming jerk who doesn’t know his earhole from his elbow?”

“If he has a degree in psychology, yes,” she replied.  “Yes, I am.”

“It’s been over a month!  I am fine.”  I yanked up my shirt, showing off my nickle-sized pink scar.

“And mighty pretty,” my mom agreed, her lips twitching, “but you are sitting your keister on that chair--”

Of course she pointed to the one with the embroidered cushion.  Grandma Fleischer had always used red, pink, and brown thread.  To hide the bloodstains when she’d pricked her finger.  God, how fucking morbid.

“--and sorting the mail.  Please and thank you, Duro-my-dear.”

The screen door smacked shut behind her.

I blew out a long breath.  Glared at the mail.

Grabbed my car keys and drove to Lugo’s.

“Saved you a dart board!” the man boomed, grinning like the sight of me heralded an early Christmas.

“Thanks, man,” I muttered, grabbing the darts he held out and proceeding to stake my claim.  I threw one after the other, my anger sending each wide of the mark.  But then I stopped.  Breathed.  Rolled my shoulders.  Unlocked my jaw and _****focused.****_

One, two, three.  Bullseye, bullseye, bullseye.

With all the practice I’d had recently, I was getting pretty good at this fucking life-wasting game.

“I’ve never been able to hit the bullseye.”

I glanced over.  A woman at the neighboring board considered the concentric circles and wedges with her lips scrunched in a moue of defeat.

“What do you hit?”

“Mostly the seventeen,” she answered softly.

“That’s not so bad.”

She sighed.  “It’s not good enough to win.”

My breath hitched.  Shit, how often had those exact words driven me to get up a little earlier so I could run a little further before school or stay a little later at the gym so I could do one more set of twenty reps?  My whole life, Agron had been bigger, stronger, faster, better at every damned thing.

He still was.

I cleared my throat.  “Sounds like you’re holding onto the dart too long.  You gotta let it coast--”  I mimed the maneuver with one of my own.  “--once you’re lined up.”  I threw the dart.  Another bullseye.

She gave it a shot, but the dart didn’t stick.  She bit her lip and hurried to scoop it up from the floor.  “Oops.”

“No, no,” I counseled.  “Put a little more weight into it.  Let gravity do the work.  Watch my arm.”  I threw my next dart.  I didn’t even bother to check where it landed.

“You make it look easy.”

“Rest assured I am not,” I joked, grinning crookedly.

She laughed.

“Yeah,” I approved, serious again, “let go of some of that tension.  You’ll never hit your mark if you’re all locked up under pressure.”

“Is that what brought you here?”

“Yeah,” I answered and turned back to my board.

At least she didn’t ask me if I wanted to fucking talk about it.  I got enough of that bullshit at the clinic.

I fucking hated psychologists.  I’d already been to see four, always steering away from sofas and sticking to sturdy armchairs, thanks very much.  One shrink after another told me my nightmares were normal -- my fear was normal.

Fear.

Yeah, you could call it that: I’d had a fucking panic attack when I’d started wrapping up my hands.  Not for a fight or even to work out.  Just out of boredom and nostalgia.

Dad had found me freaking the fuck out, hyperventilating on my old bedroom floor.

Hell, I couldn’t even look at the shit from my glory days anymore.  My medals and trophies at regional competitions.  Photos of me kicking butt in the ring.  All of it was stuffed into a cardboard box and shoved into the closet in Agron’s old room.

It was like none of it had been real.  Like it had never happened at all.

“God--fucking--damnit,” I hissed with each dart.

Bullseye.  Bullseye.  Bullseye.

“Do as I say, not as I do?” a soft, female voice asked.

Oh, yeah.  The woman was still there.  I glanced over before I could stop myself and what a fucking relief it was not to see pity in her eyes.

“You ever lose the one thing you busted your ass to be good at?”

She blinked.

Shit.  I’d just blurted that out, hadn’t I?

“Yes.”

I gaped at her, watching as she walked up to her board to pull the darts free.  “What--how did--”  I blew out a heated breath.  “How does life work -- after something like that?”

I didn’t expect her to give me an answer, but she did: “You find something else to be good at.”

Choking on a giggle, I tossed a careless wave toward the dartboard.  “Something like _****this?****_  This doesn’t matter.”

“Make it matter.  Or find something else that does.”  She smiled at my slack-jawed expression and then headed for the bar.  “Here you go, Lu.  My hour’s up.”

“Same time next week, chaplain?”

She glanced over her shoulder at me.  Fucking hell.  She was a chaplain?  Like, with a church?  Huh.  Well, maybe I’d ask her next week.  I nodded.

Her smile widened.  “Looks that way,” she told Lugo.

Yeah, it kinda did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Duro has just met Sibyl. Duro's made a habit of crashing at Lugo's bar and bowling alley in the afternoons and Lugo's worried about him, so Lugo called in a favor in asking his friend Sibyl to drive out and see if she could get through to Duro. (^_~)


	6. Helping Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: skewed family communication things, and pretty much all the sketchy tags (i.e., reference to alcoholism, violence, and prostitution) for this fic refer to Gannicus

Her name was Sibyl -- “The legacy of pagan parents,” she explained wryly -- and she’d served in the army.  Afghanistan.

“You ever talk about it?” I challenged bravely.

“Not really.”

“Isn’t talking supposed to help?”

“Understanding helps.  What don’t you understand, Duro?”

I watched her throw a dart.  It just nicked the bullseye.  “I don’t understand why I’m terrified of wrapping up and throwing down in the ring.”  I fisted my hands, raising them like I’d been drilled to do for years.

“Well, what’s there to be afraid of?”

“Pain.  Losing.  Other… consequences.”  Such as killing someone with my bare hands.

“The consequences of our actions.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Vanilla ice cream is simple,” she replied, smiling, “and we dump sprinkles and hot fudge on it.”

I laughed.

I wasn’t laughing the next day when Agron phoned.  I could tell by the clipped quality of his words and chipper tone that he wasn’t calling to shoot the shit with his one-and-only brother.  Contrarily, I didn’t make it easy on him.  Nope, I waited the asshole out, letting him natter on about work and Nasir and Nasir’s classes and Nasir’s next doctor’s appointment and finally he sighed into the real reason for his call.

“Hey, Sparts needs a favor.”

The legendary Spartacus.  A dude I’d never met.  A Fed.  “Congratulations?” I snarked.

Agron snorted.  “Yeah.  It’s a boy!”

“A what now?  Sura’s baby, you mean?”

“Fuck, no.  Gannicus.”

“What the fuck’s a Gannicus?”

“A thirty-one-year-old ex-fighter turned alcoholic.”

“Sounds lovely,” I cooed.  A voice in the background.  Nasir’s.  Muffled words that caught in my belly and gave a sickening jerk.  “Wait--say that again?”

Agron did: “He’s fallen in with a bad crowd.  If Sparts doesn’t get him out of the state, his next arrest will land him in jail.”

“What’s he been arrested for lately?”

“Brawling.  Assault.  Solicitation.”

“Can’t wait to meet him.”

“Glad to hear it.  He’s flying in on Tuesday.  Four p.m.  Don’t be late.”

“You--what--what exactly am I supposed to do with this train wreck?  Bring him home to meet Mom and Dad?”

“Hey, sure.  Works for me.”

“The fuck--!”

_****Click!** ** _

I panted onto the receiver, a drum beat to the dial tone melody.  I could not wait to break the news to Mom and Dad.

“He’s not a vegetarian, is he?” Dad checked.  The first fucking words out of his mouth.  No lie.

I pushed my half-empty plate aside and placed my head on the kitchen table.  When Agron had come out to our parents, that had been Dad’s chief concern: “You’re not going vegetarian on us, too, are you, son?”

God damn, but my parents were fucking weird.

“Peel yourself off the tabletop and appreciate the food on your plate,” my mom ordered.

Right, because God hadn’t put it there -- my mom’s hardworking hands had.  And she would make me live to regret it if I didn’t clean my plate with a smile.

I hated living at home, but I had nowhere else to go.  Agron had enough shit to deal with already: taking in a guy with a broken leg and a shattered past couldn’t be easy.  I wasn’t gonna toss myself onto that pileup.  I’d quit school when I’d scampered out west.  So my old dorm wasn’t an option, either.

“We’ll put him up in Agron’s old room,” Mom declared.

With a sigh, I pushed myself upright.  “You get who this Gannicus dude is, right?” I checked.  My last ditch effort.

And why did people say “last ditch effort” anyway?  Because you could only dig so many before you toppled in and croaked?  So your “last ditch effort” really was your last ditch effort?

“Agent Thrace called and explained,” my dad said, scooping up a forkful of peas-and-carrots.

“And you guys always listen to people in authority,” I grumbled.

Mom gave me a look.  “You should try it sometime.”

I _****hated****_  living at home, and I did not see how adding Gannicus to the mix was going to improve the situation.

But it wasn’t like anyone had asked for my opinion, had they?  So, Tuesday afternoon, I palmed my keys with a what-the-hell shrug and made for Lambert Field.

Agron had sent me a photo of my passenger, but he was easy to spot without it.  Mussed, shoulder-length hair.  Ratty Aloha shirt buttoned cock-eyed.  Stained khaki shorts.  Drunk off his ass.

I had to pull over twice so he could puke.  Once so he could piss.  And yet again so he could check the toolbox in the bed of the pickup truck for moonshine.

“Wrong state,” I glumly informed him.

He cackled.  “That’s what you think!  I’ll get my hands on some.  Don’t you worry.”

“Go for it, man.”  I wished him luck.

He belched.

My dad gave him a day to detox, then he herded him out to the barn and put the useless fuck to work.

“What the hell?!”

“Duro!  Language!”

“Yeah!  I learned some and I’m using it!” I shouted back.  “I have been offering to help out around here--”

“You’re not ready.”

“--from Day One and you guys are gonna let a trained killer handle farming equipment?!”

Mom crossed her arms.  “I didn’t lock up the cutlery when you came home.”

Ouch.  The woman still didn’t pull her punches.  It was so nice to see that nothing had changed.  I lunged for my car keys, but stretched too far--

The gunshot scar twinged, stinging like a fucking hornet had jabbed me in the belly.  Bullseye.

My mom scooped up the keys while I was hissing and blinking through the blurry heat flooding my eyes.  “So concerned for our safety--you take off at the first sign of--”

“I’m getting a fucking hotel room so you and Dad can sleep at night without worrying I’m gonna go Lizzie Borden on you.”  I held out my hand in a mute demand for my fucking keys.

Her fingers curled tighter around them.  “Duro,” she replied, slow and clear and oh boy was I fucked.  “We were concerned that the life you ended would be _****your own.”****_

I stared at her.

She slumped into the nearest chair and then patted the place beside her.

Shocked back into my ten-year-old self, I sat.

She held my hand.  Neither one of us said a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. What do you say to something like that? Awkward silence works for me. (^_~)
> 
> The name "Sibyl" literally means "a prophetess." Hence the pagan parents backstory.
> 
> Can you imagine Gannicus in jail? OMG. Disaster. (Jail wouldn't be as bad as prison, but still. This is a slippery slope that Gannicus is probably not gonna be able to escape once he starts down it.) 
> 
> Not sure about nowadays, but domestic flights in the U.S. offer (or used to offer) complementary beverage service, which included beer and wine. Like Gannicus is gonna turn that down, yeah?
> 
> "Last ditch effort" (or "last ditch attempt") comes from the American Civil War. The Confederate Army (the South) dug trenches (but they called them "ditches" because farming terms were more familiar than military terms to most soldiers). The trenches were arranged in rows (or nested semi-circles... or something similar) so that fighters could fall back if the ditch in front was overrun by the enemy. There was apparently a moment where everyone got all pumped up before at least one battle and vowed to fight to "the last ditch."
> 
> Moonshine isn't exclusively made in Kentucky, Tennessee, and West Virginia... but that's the popular image; moonshine comes from states that are known for their whiskey distilleries. Missouri is not one of those states.
> 
> Farming equipment is pretty dangerous, actually. Just... Duro's concerns here are VALID.
> 
> Lizzie Borden was the main suspect in the murders of her father and stepmother in 1892. (An ax was used.) She was tried and acquitted, but I think most people assume that she did it.


	7. Working It Out

“Your parents are mean, man,” Gannicus opined, passing me a cup of instant coffee.  It was just after dawn.  I was awake because I was used to waking up this early to get a head start on work, on my brother, on life.

Gannicus was up because my dad had pounded on his bedroom door until he’d given in and opened it.

“Are all parents like them?” he whined.

“Pretty much.”

“Fuck.  All these years I thought I’d been missing out.”

I snorted.  “You and Nasir can form a chummy little support group about it.  How’s that sound?”

The almost-not-quite convict squinted at me.  “So you got a stick up your ass about him, too?”

“What?”

“You don’t want me here.  I get it.  But what’s your beef with the little guy?”

“What--who says I’ve got a beef?”

Gannicus gave me a look.  Jesus singing Hallelujah.  He’d already learned that from my mom.  Or he was channeling Sibyl.  Speaking of which, I was so siccing her on him.  Next week -- it was happening.

I took a long sip.  Smacked my lips.  “Fertilizer delivery today.  Have fun shoveling the shit.”

I spent the day at Lugo’s, holding down the fort for a couple of hours until Sibyl showed up.

“You don’t get along with your brother’s boyfriend?”

 _ ** **Boyfriend.****  _ God, that sounded weird.  The way Agron talked, he and Nasir were an old married couple already.  “Naw.  He’s--I mean…  It’s complicated.”

“Complicated like a pizza or complicated like a hot fudge sundae?”

“Fuck the--how are you so tiny when you toss around all these damn food analogies?”

“You’re avoiding the issue.”

“Yeah, but that’s what I’m best at.”

“Duro,” she said, somber and sincere, “if that’s the ‘something else’ that you’re going to be good at, then you might as well settle in and get comfortable, because you won’t be going anywhere.”

“Ah,” I drawled, throwing my shoulders back.  “My spirits have been lifted!”

She threw a dart.  Bullseye.

I decided to follow her example.  The training camp, the fights, the crowd, the death… it all seemed so far away when I was focused on the dart board.  I felt like I’d dreamed it.  I felt safe.

Comfortable.

God damn it.

After she left to make the drive back to Jefferson City, I called up Nasir.  Asked what he was doing.  Ignored his answer and asked if I could stop by to talk.  The key was in the ignition before he even said, “Sure.”

I knocked when I arrived.  Never had to do that before.  Agron had always told me to come right in.  Now, though…

“Agron’s still working,” Nasir said, pushing the door shut behind me and navigating his way to the kitchen on those damn crutches.  I wondered just how fast he’d moved before the broken leg.  He was like a streak of lightning even with the fucking things.

I followed.

He wrinkled his nose as he spooned freeze-dried coffee crystals into a mug and added steaming water.  I peered into the cup that was already sitting on the table.  “This your tree tea?”

“My what?”

I shrugged.  “That’s what Agron calls it.”

“Tree?” he echoed, sounding offended.  “At least compare it to moss -- it grows on you if you give it a chance.”

I snorted a chuckle.  “Or weed?  It gives you a buzz.”

“Exactly.”

He put the mug in front of me on the table.  I sat.  He sat.

“Are we doing small talk, or…?”

I had to appreciate the guy’s instincts.  Hell, he’d figured out how to live with Agron.  After two decades, I still hadn’t gotten the hang of it.

“I really wanted to be the one out there,” I blurted.  “Storming that sick fuck’s castle.  Beside Agron.”

Nasir opened his mouth.  When I lifted a palm, he closed it again.

I finished, “But if it couldn’t me, I’m glad it was you.”

“Duro, you were with him.”  Nasir offered me a wry grin.  “Or did he used to let bullies get away with busting up his little brother?”

Well.  When put that way…  “OK.  Point taken.  I was there.”

Nasir hid a satisfied smirk behind his cup.

That look.  Oh, no.  He was so not getting away with a clean win.  “And I’ll be in your nightmares if you break his heart.”

Nasir beamed and held out his cup.  We clinked mugs.

“So,” I began, “does that really taste like trees and moss or whatever?”

He put the cup down and scooted it across the table toward me.  I took a sip.

Oh--fuck-shit-damn--!  “What the actual hell?” I coughed and sputtered, choking.

The little twerp laughed.  “If I’d ever had any doubt that you and Agron were related…”

“Yeah, well, most people are where we come from.”  Maybe it was a little premature, but-- “Welcome to the family.”

“Thanks, bro.”

I shook my head, deflating on a sigh, but I had no regrets.  In fact, I had a lot less anger, but it wasn’t like a few words could change all that had happened.  There was no magic fix or miracle cure.

It took a couple of weeks for me to get out of the habit of goading Gannicus.  And that happened mostly because he was head over dumbass in love with Chaplain Sibyl.  I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell.  Thank God.  But he stuck around.  Moved to Jefferson City, where Sibyl lived.  Stayed out of trouble.  Spartacus was thrilled to owe me a favor-with-a-capital-F for it.

Sura had a baby girl.  They named her Dawn -- the shining light and center of their universe.  Clearly, they’d been thinking of me when they picked that one out.  Or maybe the sunrise following the fall of Numerius’ empire.  The first day of the rest of their lives.

It took me six months before I could manage to wrap up my hands and pull on boxing gloves without losing my shit.  My first venture back in the ring happened in the barn, where Mom and Dad had taught me and my brother the basics.  My opponent was Nasir.  I had my ass handed to me.

Agron somehow convinced Nasir to marry him.  My brother-in-law Nasir Fleischer.  Sounds fucking ridiculous, right?  No more ridiculous than the rest of us here in Hermann, Missouri.

My mom cried tears of joy at the wedding and my dad manned the grill at our next family cookout, grinning like a fool when Nasir held out his plate in demand for a second cheeseburger.

Good times.  And, yeah, maybe that stupid saying had a little truth to it: people might appreciate the best moments because they’d already survived the worst.

Or, they might just be having a fucking great time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Duro demanded to do the epilogue bits with the people he knows: Sibyl & Gannicus, Sura & Sparts, Nasir & Agron...
> 
> Maybe (probably? definitely?) you've got unanswered questions. AO3 has a "Subscribe" option. If you head over to The Fleischer Guide to an Unforgettable Holiday series main page ( archiveofourown.org/series/1045908 ) you can get updates... y'know, if the characters from this 'verse would like to talk to me again. (^_~)
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave me a kudo or a kind comment. (Encouragement like that plays a big role in making updates happen.)


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